


You know you like it but you're scared of the shame

by crookedspoon



Series: Spicing up the Autumn 2017 [8]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Deepthroating, Dubious Consent, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, M/M, Negotiations, POV Richard Gansey III, POV Second Person, Work In Progress, if people are interested, possibly, talking heads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 22:04:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12308751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: Ronan said there was no negotiating with Kavinsky, but you had to see for yourself if that was true before deciding anything rash.





	You know you like it but you're scared of the shame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galateaofthewestside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galateaofthewestside/gifts).



> For Day #8 "Deepthroating" at Kinktober and 8. "Impasse" at Inktober for writers, and inspired by the prompt " Gansey goes alone to the fairgrounds for negotiation and ends up getting screwed senseless over the white Mitsubishi’s hood." from the Raven Cycle kink meme. (I might want to write the actual sex on a car scene one day, but I can't promise anything.)
> 
> Excuse the talking heads.

You're feeling wild and untethered as you pull up to the fairgrounds. The party is in full swing: music and dancing and crushed cars turned into bonfires, an excess of squandered wealth and time and potential. (You like to believe that every person has the potential to be more than what they chose to be.)

You leave the Pig where it won't be turned into cinders right away. Your eyes scan the crowd for a mop of bleached hair above sleazy white sunglasses. The sheer number of people milling about makes you feel even more unsettled.

Ronan said there was no negotiating with Kavinsky, but you had to see for yourself if that was true before deciding anything rash. You couldn't imagine Ronan trying very hard to come to an agreement with Kavinsky, given their history.

You find him in a circle of his cronies, laughing and handing around a bottle of bourbon. He spots you from several steps away, as if he's been waiting for you to show up. He touches Prokopenko's back, leans in close to say something, then hails you as he steps closer.

"The prince of Henrietta himself," he calls. "What, no dog to protect you this time? Are you getting bored with your own crew?"

"I don't need protection from you," you answer and stand your ground, even as he steps right into your face.

"You sure?" He has to stoop to be at eye level with you and his grin is a leer, but you don't fall for it.

"We need to talk."

"What could Aglionby's number one golden boy possibly have to talk about that would interest me?"

"Dreams."

Kavinsky's eyebrows shoot up to his browline. "I'm all ears."

"Can we go somewhere more... private?" You realize before you say it that you've chosen the wrong venue for a talk of this nature. But Kavinsky is pretty elusive unless you nail him down to a party or a race and Ronan wasn't forthcoming with his phone number.

"You wanna be alone with me?" Kavinsky laughs. "Is everyone in your inner circle a faggot?"

"I object to your choice of words."

"Pardon my fucking French, then. I just hope your gay is not catching."

He leads you to a white Mitsubishi Evo parked well at the edge of the fairgrounds, away from the spotlights and the loud music. Out here, the night presses in and casts Kavinsky in shadows. 

"So talk," he says and lights a cigarette.

"I need you to stop."

Kavinsky crosses his arms in front of his chest and eyes you for a long moment. He's probably not used to other people telling him what to do, usually being himself the one to give the orders. He exhales a column of smoke. "Stop what?"

"Taking things out of your dreams."

"So you know about that." His expression is unreadable.

"I didn't think it would be a secret."

"Used to be one for that dog of yours for the longest time."

You can't argue with that. It had taken you eighteen months and the discovery of a magical, sentient forest for Ronan to open up about this.

"You sure you wanna go down that road? You could benefit from this too, you know. I could get you anything you could ever need."

"I have no need of your services."

"Lynch is still a baby, man. Half the time, he relies on luck to take out anything worthwhile. I know what I'm doing. I've been honing this skill for years. Need a handful of sleeping pills? They're yours."

You tilt your head and cross your arms in turn.

"C'mon, those bags underneath your eyes are telling," he says and raises his shades to the top of his head.

He runs his fingers below his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose. Even in this sparse illumination, the shadows beneath his lower lids are stark in contrast to his white skin.

"Don't you think I'd recognize a fellow insomniac?"

"From one sleep-deprived person to another then, I urge you to stop this. It's destroying the world."

He blows smoke out like a hiss. "What, and piss on the empire I've worked so hard to build just because you asked nicely? People rely on me for shit. And where do you think that shit is coming from? I can't go around disappointing my buyers all of a sudden."

"You're feeding their addictions," you protest. "You're not doing anyone a favor."

"Listen here, dipshit. I'm running out of patience with you. You think you're so smart, but what is it you actually know? Apart from the answers to pop quizzes, I mean."

You want to say something, but chew the inside of your cheek instead.

"It's simple: if these kids didn't come to me, they'd be going to someone else, and guess what? That shit is almost certainly cut up and laced with asbestos or whatever. I can guarantee you that my shit is the cleanest out there, not only in terms of quality but in terms of ecological impact, since that's a thing you WASPs care so much about."

You notice surprise springing up in you, but you keep it from showing up in your face.

"Yeah," he says, takes a last drag and crushes his cigarette underfoot, "I know some shit. Think about it: top quality, zero transportation, and zero bloodshed, because the only person who had to die to provide it is me. Sounds like a good deal to me, if there ever was one."

"It's still drugs."

"Hate to break it you, Dick, but people get addicted to anything. I'm just providing them with a safe alternative. If they didn't want it, they wouldn't be coming to me."

"It's never safe."

"So's life." Kavinsky hooks his sunglasses over his white tanktop and runs a hand through his hair. "I thought my business model would appeal to your rich white boy sensibilities."

"You're a rich white boy."

"Not your kind." His grin is crooked, and he spreads his arms wide. "C'mon, you've been thinking it, you and all your sanctimonious cocksuckers. I'm trash, just another East European import leeching off of the greatness of this country. God bless fuckin' America."

"I wasn't aware you knew any polysyllabic words."

"There's that condescension again. Word of advice, dickhead: you walk onto my turf and demand I switch up my style, you better watch your fuckin' mouth and have something interesting to offer. 'Cause otherwise you can fuck right off."

"What do you want?" You tilt your chin up, and answer that fire in his eyes with a cool gaze of your own.

"Global disarmament and world peace." He barks a laugh. "Did you really think you had anything to bargain with?"

You didn't, but you had to take your chance. "I'm sure we can come to an agreement."

"Sure, if you agree to be my bitch."

You blink, slowly, trying to process what he's just said. Your cheeks heat. Surely he's just saying that to throw you off. "I'm going to disregard that expression in favor of asking what that position would entail. Do you need someone to do your homework for you?"

"That's cute, I like it. You can do that too if it makes you feel better. But we both know you got my drift."

You're not sure you did, but what else could he mean if he's not willing to clarify? "I see you finally got to terms with your sexuality. Congratulations."

Kavinsky's head tips back with uproarious laughter. "Good one, Dick. I knew you had a sense of humor beneath all that old money veneer you wear like a surcoat."

"Is this going to be a continued jab at my ancestry, or a negotiation of terms?"

Kavinsky rubs a hand over his face, and when it comes off his expression is dead serious. "So you're that eager to be my bitch."

"You still haven't told me what you'd expect of me."

"Can't you guess?"

"I want to hear you say it," you say, as if you're still hoping there is any way he doesn't mean what he's implying.

"If you want me to stop dreaming, I want you to do whatever I want whenever I want it."

"That sounds both vague and incongruous. I ask you for one clearly defined task and you cannot do the same."

"One task? That's how you think of it? You're asking me to give up _everything._ And you expect me to – what? – just roll over and thank you for the opportunity? Fuck you, man. The way I see it, you're in no position to demand anything."

You take a deep breath and think about it for a second. Kavinsky has the power to unravel the world by draining the ley line. And you have the chance to stop him. There is really nothing _to_ think about. 

"Tell me what you want, then."

"Already did: for you to be my bitch. Do everything I tell you to. Make this deal worthwhile."

"'Everything' is outside the limits of my imagination. You'll need to narrow it down so I know what I'll be agreeing to."

Kavinsky shrugs. "Get me off when I want you to; homework was also a nice suggestion, since I won't be able to forge it any longer. There'll be more as I think of it, but it boils down to you making up for everything I'll lose. Sounds fair, doesn't it?"

"I don't see how me getting you off fits into that though."

"Oh, that," he laughs. "That's just a little extra, to make sure you're serious about your offer."

"I am."

"Good, then prove it: get down on your knees and suck me off."

"Here?" Your eyes flicker to the revelers who are far enough away not to hear you, but not far enough away to be ignored. "We haven't even made out the specifics."

"We can make out later if you insist on it. But I'm not agreeing to anything before I haven't sampled the goods to make sure you're even worth my time."

"What? That's not—"

"I need to know if what you're selling is up to scratch. If you don't like that, you're free to leave. I'm not forcing you to anything."

And that's the worst of it. It's circumstance that has forced your hand, not Kavinsky. You might feel like the fate of the world is resting on your shoulders, but there would be an easy way out of this predicament. The only downside to that option is that you don't want Kavinsky's life on your conscience.

So you hold his gaze as you sink down to your knees.

"This stays between us," you say with as much command as you can muster in this position. Your heart is hammering in your chest and your palms are sweating. You have no idea if you can go through with this, but you have to at least try.

He pulls down his zipper and takes out his dick. He's half-hard already and strokes himself while you stare at his hand.

"Looks familiar, doesn't it?" he says and grins. "I sent you a picture."

"That was you?" You remember a certain part of someone's anatomy with an Irish flag tied around it. You'd assumed it was Ronan's.

"Disappointed it wasn't Lynch's, after all?"

He reaches out for your hair, but you brush him away.

"Need instructions?" he asks as you continue staring. "It's really rather simple. You open your mouth and you suck on it."

You take a shuddering breath before you look up, a challenge in your eyes. "Perhaps you might like to show me how it's done? Give me a personal demonstration?"

"That's funny, Dick. Keep it up and I might actually grow to like you."

You breathe out against his length, something akin to a sigh. "If we're going to do this, I have a condition of my own. Stop calling me Dick. Gansey is more than adequate."

"You can earn that privilege, sweetheart. Despite what my mother says, I'm not a monster. But for now: suck my dick, Dick."

It rankles you, but you do what you promised. You take him into your mouth. He tastes of sweat and salt and skin, not quite as unpleasant as you've imagined. 

His fingers find themselves into your hair, but you don't mind so much now. It feels nice in a way and takes your mind off of what you're doing. It becomes harder to ignore though as he begins thrusting into your mouth.

You try to let it happen, try not to gag, but he's entirely too persistent, sliding his length as far into your mouth as it would go. It rubs against the back of your throat and tickles your uvula. Your body convulses involuntarily. 

"Relax," he breathes and strokes your cheek.

But you can't, you're not used to this, and he's not giving you any time to breathe, instead trying to slide in deeper, continuing to nudge the ring of muscles at the back of your throat.

One such sharp push result in you doubling over and evacuating the contents of your stomach between his shoes.

"Deal's off," Kavinsky says once you've stopped heaving, to make sure you catch it.

He's zipped himself up and turns away, but you catch the leg of his jeans. "You didn't give me a chance."

"Hmm," he muses. "I guess I might let you continue, if you're willing to beg me for it."

It should strike you as weird how readily you want to continue to get him off, but you feel like the world's counting on you and there's no time for second thoughts, so this is really just as well.

"You wanted instructions? Okay: tilt your head up." You do. "More." He cradles the back of your skull to take some of the pressure from your neck. "Yeah, that's good. Now stick out your tongue. No, open your mouth. Good, you can listen."

He hear his zipper before his length rubs over your lips again.

"That's beautiful, man."

And then he's back in your mouth, but at a downward angle and the fingers in your hair keep your head tilted. You shouldn't be thinking this, but he feels so good sliding across your tongue, and then you're not thinking anything at all, because he's breached your throat and you cannot breathe.

"Shh," he soothes, breathless himself, stroking his thumb along the outside column of your throat. "It's alright. You can do this. Fuck, that's good. _Fuck._ "

You only notice how your throat is working to accommodate this foreign object, and how your chest is spasming, but his words of praise still register with you and somehow that makes it worth it, as if you're proud you can make him feel like that. In a way you are, because you know he'll agree to anything now. You've got him. That's the main thing.

You breathe with sweet relief when he lets you pull back, and the rest of your blowjob is a messy affair you're barely conscious enough to witness. He comes in your mouth, and it tastes rather disgusting, but you couldn't care less right now. All that matters is that he got off, that _you_ got him off, which means you're able to extract a promise from him in return.

"Do we have a deal?" Your voice is rough and your throat aches when you say this, but you don't let him see your discomfort.

"Tomorrow, same time," he agrees, just as breathless as you are. "Then we'll talk. Don't be late."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "You Know You Like It" by Living in Fiction.
> 
> Tumblr post for reblogging convenience [here](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/166195527630/kinktober-day-8-deepthroating).


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